


It All Came Crashing Down

by adventurerofthewrittenworld



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Lots of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25542226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adventurerofthewrittenworld/pseuds/adventurerofthewrittenworld
Summary: A terrible fight with Feyre leads Rhys to make the greatest mistake of his life.
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand
Comments: 16
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is admittedly a little bit OOC for rhys because I don't think he would ever cheat on feyre, but I wanted to explore the idea since Rhys has always been a little bit insecure about his relationship with her, and I wanted to explore how that might affect their relationship later down the road

Rhys sat miserably alone at the bar, nursing what must have been his hundredth drink as he recalled the angry words he and Feyre had hurled at each other last night. He hadn’t went back to the estate since their fight. No, the coward that he was, he’d instead flown in the skies until he was so tired he collapsed on a settee at the house of wind. 

A flash of gold hair at his right caught his attention. It was a High Fae female. She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and motioned to the seat next to him. 

“Is this taken?”

He shook his head. He was about to turn back to his drink, prepared to brood the rest of the night alone before he went back to resolve things with Feyre. 

But the female only laughed at him. “You look depressing. That makes two of us.”

He studied her. “You don’t look depressed.”

Her eyes twinkled with amusement. “That’s because I hide it better.”

She faced him fully now, and bit her lip. “But I find that coping with sex is typically the best remedy for these sorts of things.”

His brows rose. This female was certainly forward. “What’s your name?” he asked. 

“Adelina.”

She offered no surname, and he didn’t push for one. They were strangers in a bar. Perhaps she wished to escape. 

“Rhys,” he said, raising his glass to clink it against hers. 

She laughed again. “I know who you are.”

“Then you know I’m mated.”

“Ouch. No need to be so prickly.”

“Just making my intentions clear.”

“Well, consider it heard. Loud and clear.” 

“No ring?”

“Hmm?”

“You and your mate don’t wear rings? It’s custom, or so I’ve heard.” She grinned. “I’ve never been mated.”

Rhys glanced at his bare hand. He had taken the ring off after his fight and already felt guilty for it. He would wear it again as soon as he got back to the House. 

“It’s temporarily in a drawer.”

“Ah. I see. Fight?”

“None of your business,” he said with a feline smile.

She leaned in closer, close enough so that he could scent her arousal. His nostrils flared, but he didn’t move. 

Her fingers trailed across his chest, and she scanned his face. 

“Are you going to stop me?” she purred. 

He swallowed, but didn’t say anything. 

They both leaned in at the same time, and kissed. It lasted for only a heartbeat before Rhys pulled back, horrified at what he’d done. 

“Stop,” he said, and she stepped back.

“What’s wrong?”

But Rhys was going to be sick. He was going to be horribly, violently sick. 

He winnowed to a deserted street a couple blocks away and hurled his guts up on the cobblestone. He fell to his knees, bracing his hand against the wall. He breathed and breathed—he twisted as he emptied his guts again, and again, panting and crying when he was done. He snapped his fingers and the mess on the ground was gone, and he winnowed again, this time to the House of Wind.

Panic gripped him as he realized the enormity of what he’d done. He had never been so—so disgusted and repulsed at himself. He couldn’t get the scent of that girl off of him, the taste of him out of her mouth, her tongue in his mouth, claiming him—

He screamed in frustration and blind terror. How would he ever fix this? How would he ever make up for it? Feeling the breath leave his lungs, he thought of Feyre, her face when she would inevitably find out, when he would tell her. The floor fell out from beneath him. Everything faded to mist. 

She would not forgive him. 

And he would lose her. 

“Feyre,” he choked out, tears streaking down his face. 

“Rhys,” she said, brows furrowing. Her face was concerned and she crossed the room to him, reaching for him to hug him. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

Rhys didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, not as she pulled him in her arms and he breathed in her scent as if it was the last time he would ever do so. He buried his face in the crook of her shoulder, his body shaking as he cried. 

“Rhys,” Feyre said, “I’m sorry we fought. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry. Is that why you’re upset? It’s okay, Rhys, it’s okay. We’ll figure it out. I’m not mad at you.” 

At this, he cried harder. He was going to lose her. This wonderful, beautiful gift from the Cauldron that had walked into his life. This woman who had seen all of him and loved him, and had not walked away. He was going to lose her. 

He didn’t want to pull away. This was probably going to be the last time she ever—he broke off the thought. 

He gathered the nonexistent shreds of his composure and forced himself to pull away. 

He knew his face was a mess from the pitying look she gave him. He didn’t bother to try to stop the tears, the devastation on his face. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. Feyre, I don’t know why I did it, I swear I don’t know why—I still—I still love you more than anything, but I—I—I made a mistake—“

Feyre looked truly concerned now. Wariness crept into her face. “You’re really worrying me. What happened, Rhys?”

He was stammering and crying like a baby now. “I—I—I was at a b—bar and there was a girl and she came up to me, and—“ he broke off, sobbing anew. “I was frustrated and feeling desperate and I kissed her, and it was only for a moment, and that’s all I did, and I left immediately after—I swear, I s-swear, please believe me—“

Feyre was utterly silent. Her face was distraught, tears in her eyes. “What?” she said, and the word was so sad, and soft, and vulnerable, and Rhys had—he had never hated himself more. He was such a bastard. For putting her through this. Making her cry. Breaking her heart. 

He hated himself. He already knew he would never forgive himself, but at the look on her face, he thought his heart might actually cleave in half. He thought he might die. He would deserve it. If this heartbreak, if this grief and regret and self-loathing killed him, he would deserve it. 

“You cheated on me?” Feyre asked, as if saying the words aloud would somehow help her believe it. 

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “You deserve better than me, you deserve better than this—“

“Yes,” she said solemnly. “I do.”

He bowed his head. 

“What was her name?” Her tone was glacial. Her sadness had hardened to anger, and Rhys’s stomach lurched. 

“Feyre—“

“I said,” she snapped, “What was her name.”

He was so ashamed he couldn’t meet her eyes. “Adelina.” He wanted to sink into the floor and die. But he deserved this shame, this humiliation.

Feyre nodded. “What did she look like?”

“Feyre, please don’t ask me that. It doesn’t matter. I love you.” I love you I love you I love you—

“What does she look like?”

“Please,” he begged. He didn’t want to think about the other girl, didn’t want to relive it. 

“You owe me at least this much. Answers.”

“She had...golden hair. Brown eyes. Fair skinned. I don’t remember anything else.”

Feyre nodded again. “Did you like it?” 

He didn’t speak. He was going to throw up. However he thought this was going to go, it was much, much worse. 

“Did you like it?”

“No,” he said, forcing the word out. “Of course not.” He still didn’t meet her eyes. He couldn’t bear to see whatever was there. The anger and hurt and devastation and distance. His heart clenched. 

“Did she know you were mated?” 

He was silent again. 

“Are you protecting her?” Her tone was icy. Dangerous. “Are you still trying to protect her, after you cheated on me with her?”

“She knew. That I was mated. I told her.”

Feyre scoffed. “I want her out of the city. Permanently. You know what? I’ll tell her myself.”

He was wise enough not to visibly cringe. The idea of Feyre meeting this girl—it would not end well. Still, he didn’t tell her not to. After what he’d done, Feyre was entitled to whatever she wanted. If that was revenge, closure...she would get it. He would give it to her. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, staring down at him, and this time, he dared to meet her eyes. He shrank from the look she was giving him. He had never seen her angrier, never seen her more distant. He felt a foot tall as she glared at him.

“I’m sorry,” he offered uselessly. “I’m so, so, sorry. If I could take it back, I would. I don’t even know why I did it. I wish I knew. I wish I could tell you. I know I’ve hurt you, I know you hate me—“ he choked on his words, “But please,” he said desperately, well and truly begging now, “Please don’t hate me forever.” He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear the thought of losing not just his mate, his wife, but his friend as well.

“Why did you do it?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” he said desperately. “I was—I was frustrated with you, and we had just fought, and I don’t know what came over me then. She was there, and interested in me, and uncomplicated, and for a moment, I was stupid enough to let her near me.”

“Why?” and now her voice cracked. Rhys’s heart strained. Her sadness was worse than her anger. He would rather have her rage at him, would rather have her beat him into the dirt than cry. “Why?” she repeated. “Why would you risk what we had for this?” 

“I don’t know,” he said, a tear slipping free. At the devastation on her face, his heart cracked open all over again. “I don’t know.” And it was the truth. He didn’t know what was so broken and twisted inside him that he had not cherished Feyre enough to respect her—to honor her and their relationship.

“There is something broken inside you,” Feyre breathed. As if she had heard his thoughts, as if she could see through him, and every facade he’d built. “I didn’t see it before. But there is truly something broken in you if you threw away everything we had for a fleeting moment of—what? escape? pleasure?” 

Rhys staggered back at the force of her words, the horrible truth in them. “Please,” he gasped out. He didn’t know why he was begging. He didn’t deserve her, he never had—he had just gotten lucky once, and he’d blown it, ruined it like he’d ruined everything—

“I was wrong,” Feyre gasped out through her tears. “When I accepted our mating bond, when I told you that you were the one for me.” 

Rhys felt the remnants of his heart shattering under the weight of her words. The cavity in his chest physically ached. He thought he might die from the pain and terror of his heart being broken as she kept speaking, each word a heavier blow to his already ravaged heart. 

“I was so wrong,” Feyre said. “The man I loved would never hurt me like this. Would never dream of it. That means you’re not the one for me. I was wrong. I was so wrong,” she kept repeating. 

Rhys didn’t say anything. He didn’t correct her, didn’t beg or explain. She was right. He didn’t deserve her. How could he have ever thought they were matched in any way? She was brilliant and bold and clever and beautiful and he was—so broken. Damaged. 

“I want the mating bond broken,” she breathed. 

All the air left his lungs. “No,” he begged. Please. He would never feel her through the bond again, would never feel her bright laughter, her comforting presence. 

“Do it,” she ordered. “Now.”

“Feyre, please don’t.” He fell to his knees, head bowed. How was everything spinning out of control so fast? 

“Do it,” she said. Her face was tearstreaked and angry. 

“I can’t,” he said. “I don’t have that type of power.”

“Then leave,” she said, pointing at the door. 

...

He would repent for this for the rest of his life. The biggest mistake and regret of his five hundred something years of existence. Losing her. He had never—he had never understood how Tamlin had managed to lose her, how anyone could have her love and be stupid enough to lose it. 

But he had. 

He would never forgive himself. He didn’t even know how he was going to work with her, as she was still his High Lady. He didn’t know how he was going to bear seeing her around his friends. 

His friends, he thought numbly. Would they still be his friends? Or would this betrayal push them away too? They would rightfully side with Feyre. He knew that. A part of him was grateful for it. She would need her friends now. 

He was utterly alone. And he had no one to blame but himself. 

...

Feyre didn’t know what she was doing here. But she raised her hand to knock on the door of the townhouse Rhys now resided in. It felt strange to knock as if she were a guest, as if this was not her home too, but ever since they’d broken up, Rhys had taken to staying at this house. And since everyone else was always at the riverfront house, this place had sort of become his. 

Rhys opened the door a heartbeat later, and Feyre felt her cheeks warm. For no reason at all, other than the fact that he was Rhys, and she would never be able to deny the connection between them. 

“Feyre,” he said, surprised. And hopeful. There was a little bit of hope there too, though he tried to hide it. It broke her heart. Everything hurt to look at now. Especially him. 

“Mind if I come in?” she only said. 

He nodded, holding open the door for her, and she walked in and lingered by the fireplace. 

“Are you cold?” He sent a flicker of his magic into the fireplace, and the hearth instantly heated. Warmth burst through the room, but she didn’t care. Barely noticed. 

“I miss you,” she said breathlessly, and hated herself for it. For how pathetic she sounded. He had cheated on her. She should be angry at him. All she felt was sad, and hurt, and right now, she felt alone. 

“Feyre,” he said again, and this time he sounded wary. Uncertain. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” she said. Then she amended, “A little.”

He turned away from her for a moment, as if the sight of her was physically painful, and her heart deflated. 

He noticed the change in her face, and his eyes widened. “What’s wrong?”

“I just want you,” she said. 

Something in his eyes seemed to shatter. She saw it. Saw something break in him, and his face was pained, and it was such tragic, terribly beauty—

He looked at her then, and her heart came alive. She felt alive with his gaze on her. And the way he was looking at her, like he loved her, like he wanted her, like she was all he ever wanted—

She kissed him.


	2. Chapter 2

He didn’t dare to so much as breathe as her lips pressed gently against his. He didn’t move, afraid to break the moment. He didn’t touch her, afraid to scare her away, afraid of doing something wrong. 

But Feyre leaned back, and said, “Touch me.” She took his hands and placed one on her waist, and one on the curve of her breast. “It’s okay,” she said. “Touch me. I want to feel you.”

Fingers shaking, he slid his hand to her lower back, his other hand gently cupping her. He lowered his head to trail kisses down her neck, her collarbone. 

She pulled him up to kiss him again, slipping her tongue into his mouth. He groaned, feeling dizzy with feeling and desire. She felt so good. This felt so right, so perfect. He didn’t want to ruin it. 

He let her explore him, giving her whatever she asked. When her kiss turned more urgent, and she pinned him to the bed, straddling his hips, he finally let himself believe this was happening. She wanted him. 

It felt like a mistake. Like a cruel joke. Like the universe was teasing him with what he wanted most, and would rip it away from him again. 

He didn’t care. 

He kissed her with more fervor this time, enjoying the feeling of her on top of him. 

It wasn’t until she started kissing his tears away that he realized he was crying. He still felt the traces of that girl he’d kissed, like a hot brand on him. He wanted Feyre to erase her touch, make him hers again. 

She understood. Whether through the bond, or just because she knew him so well, she understood. 

“Say it,” he begged. 

“You’re mine.” 

His tears shifted, and she kissed him with more fervor now, her tongue in his mouth, claiming him, marking him. 

She snarled, and said again, “You’re _mine._ ” 

_Yes yes yes_

She used her magic to pin his wrists above him so he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t feel her, and it was agony, but he deserved it. If this was his punishment, then so be it. 

He whimpered as Feyre ran her hands down his chest in a proprietary touch, then gripped him below his navel. He arched into her touch, but she only stroked him lightly, barely giving him anything. 

“Please,” he said, and she ignored him. 

“You’re mine,” she said, as she gripped him and stroked him harder. 

He bucked into her hand, and gasped, “I’m yours. Only yours.”

Feeling her hands on him, touching and exploring and teasing his body, but not being being able to touch her, was torture. It was the worst sort of pain, the worst sort of punishment. 

Her fingers ghosted over him again, then cupped his balls. He squeezed his eyes shut, tossing his head back. 

“Feyre,” he choked. 

“You’re mine,” she said. “I decide if, and when, and how, you get to touch me.”

He nodded, agreeing. “Yes. I’m yours.”

She began stroking him harder now, building up a rhythm until he could taste his release, could feel it hovering close. But just as he felt himself about to tumble over that edge, she stopped. 

He groaned, whimpering. “Feyre.”

She shushed him, and began working him again, and his body tensed once again.

She let him fall from that edge again, denying him release. 

He squirmed under her bonds, trying to find any bit of friction. He knew this was punishment for what he’d done. Maybe she wouldn’t let him come at all. 

But Feyre seemed unconcerned as she moved so that she hovered over him, her wetness right above his face. Her scent was all around him and it was maddening. His mouth watered as she sat on him, and then his tongue was in her, flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs, and she was moaning.

Every sound she made, every time her fingers dug themselves into the sheets beside his head, a burst of male satisfaction shot through him.

She came hard on his tongue, and he lapped up her wetness greedily, licking and sucking until she was too sensitive and she pushed away from him. 

Feyre stared at him. He knew why. Her gaze fell on the wet crotch of his pants. 

“You came in your pants,” she said.

“I couldn’t help it,” he said, breathless. “That’s the effect you have on me. Only you.” He knew she needed to hear that. He needed to say it, too. 

Despite everything, she blushed. Something in his chest eased at that. It felt so...normal. He shut down the hope that flared in his chest, foreign and unwanted. Nothing would ever be the same between them again. He’d ruined that. But maybe, with time, he could earn back her trust. It would be slow, and painful, but he would do whatever it took. 

Feyre pushed off the bed and stood up, turning away from him. His heart stumbled. He’d done something wrong. He’d messed up, again. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. 

“What?” he said. 

“Nothing.” But now she was crying. 

“Feyre, please tell me. What’s wrong?”

“This was a mistake.”

He tried not to feel the impact of her words. Tried, and failed. 

“Why?” he said instead. 

“I look at you, and it’s not the same anymore.” 

The words were a knife to his gut. It was true, and he knew it. She didn’t look at him the same way anymore. She used to look at him like he hung the moon in the sky every night, and now...now she looked at him like he was just another person in her life who had hurt her. 

“What can I do?” he pleaded.

“Nothing,” she breathed, and she seemed to come to a decision. He knew what she was going to say before she said it. 

No, no, no, no—

“Feyre, don’t.”

“It’s over,” she said. Her eyes were red but she wasn’t crying anymore. “We’re done.”

...

Rhys hadn’t left his bed yet this morning. He knew he had to, knew he had about a dozen different things to do, and he’d already skipped several meetings, but he couldn’t find the willpower to drag himself out of bed. 

Just last night, he’d held her. Touched her. Tasted her. Just last night, everything seemed possible again. 

He didn’t blame her for ending things. Had he really thought it would be this easy to win her back?

Two sharp, impatient knocks sounded on the door. “I’m coming in,” Mor’s voice said from the other side. 

He winced at the look on her face. Mor looked murderous. 

“What the hell is wrong with you.” The words were flat. He fought not to bristle. 

“I’ve already heard this from Cassian. I don’t need it from you, too,” he grumbled. 

Mor pursued her lips, and took in the room around them. The general state of disorder and chaos. “You need to stop this, Rhys. The self-pity. The self-destruction. You may have failed Feyre, but you still have a city that needs you. Your people need you.”

He met her gaze, his eyes wary. “How am I supposed to face her after all this? And work with her like everything’s the same as before?”

Mor’s face was calm. Understanding. “You have to. Rhys.” And then she said more gently, “You have to.”

He blew out a breath of air, trying desperately not to imagine Feyre’s face when he would inevitably see her next. How different it would be. How distant and closed off she’d been the last time he’d seen her. But he could do this. He had to, for his people. 

“I suppose I should get up then.”

“That’s my cue to leave.”

But Mor didn’t leave. She lingered, and after a brief pause, she said, “And Rhys? I’m not sure what Feyre wants, or what she’s thinking, but if you ever want things to be...better between you, maybe you should work on yourself first. Don’t do it for her. It’ll help you either way.”

His eyes burned and he didn’t know why, but he managed to huff a laugh. “Wise words, cousin. Thank you.”

...

“We need to pay the Court of Nightmares a visit,” Rhys said by way of greeting. “It’s been too long since our last one.”

Feyre met his gaze in the mirror of her dressing table and nodded. “When?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Today?” 

“If you can,” he said apologetically. 

“I’ll take an hour to prepare.”

“Feyre…” he swallowed thickly. “Can you do this?” Rhys wasn’t sure if he could. He felt like a ghost. But he would pull it together because he had to. 

He didn’t know why he asked. He knew she wouldn’t say no. But he wanted to talk to her again, and have it be easy between them. He supposed he had lost the right to that the moment he’d kissed that girl. No, before that, even. The moment he’d known that girl had the intention of seducing him, and he hadn’t left. 

“I’m fine,” Feyre said. 

She met him in the foyer exactly an hour later. 

Rhys felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. 

She looked radiant. Stunning, in her gown of midnight and silver. The dress clung to her curves before flowing out around her. She was the picture of elegance. Standing next to him, she was the perfect twin to his terrifying darkness. 

It hit Rhys, then. That she was no longer his. No longer his to admire, to love, to cherish. And as the full breadth of what he’d lost swept before him, he felt tears spring to his eyes. 

He turned away, not wanting her to see it. 

“Rhys. Are you okay?” She came up behind him, keeping a healthy distance. 

He faced her again, willing his face to remain composed. “Yes.” 

And he knew he shouldn’t, knew he had lost the right to this a long time ago, but he told her, “You look beautiful.” 

Her reply was reserved. Polite. “Thank you. So do you.”

They walked into the throne room, their depraved subjects bowing before them, and she took her seat in the throne next to his. 

Afterwards, it was Feyre that found him. 

“I talked to Amren,” she said. “She explained that it would be...physically painful for both of us if I broke the bond.” 

Rhys tried to meet her eyes but she was avoiding his gaze. 

“If you want the bond broken, I understand.” He almost choked on the words. But if she truly wanted it, he would do it. Even if it killed him. 

“I decided that I wouldn’t.” She blew out a breath. “Any male I’m with in the future would have to...understand.” 

_Future male._

The words rang in him, sending a fresh wave of pain through him. 

Of course she would move on. Of course she would find love again, with another male. Had he expected her to be sad over him forever?

And in that moment, it wasn’t rage or jealousy that gripped him, but despair. Such bleak, unending despair. 

He had lost her. The realization would never stop feeling like a brick to the stomach. His head swam. He couldn’t believe how badly he had screwed up, to push her away this much. So permanently. He’d lost her as not just his mate, but his friend. 

He realized with a start, that she was waiting for him to stay something. 

He fumbled for anything to say. “I’m sure the right male would understand.”

She nodded, then turned to leave without saying anything else. 

...

Sixty years later, he heard about him. Kaldon. The Illyrian male Feyre had met in one of the war camps when she’d visited as High Lady. He’d courted her, charmed her, and she’d said yes when he asked her on a date. 

Rhys had heard bits and pieces from Cassian, who had told him reluctantly, and Mor who had admitted it when he asked her, and winced at whatever expression was on his face. But Rhys only said the truth, that he wished Feyre happiness. 

He couldn’t help comparing the way he and Feyre fell in love to her slow courting with Kaldon; it was nothing alike. He supposed this was just one more thing this new male would be able to offer her that he hadn’t—normalcy. Kaldon wasn’t a feared and despised High Lord; Feyre’s life would never be in danger because she was with him. Maybe she was better off with him. 

...

When Rhys saw Kaldon during the next war camp meeting, he’d used up every ounce of his self control, every bit of training and practice to keep a smile on his face and greet Kaldon. 

He’d seen Feyre’s nervous expression, and hadn’t wanted to give her a reason to resent him. Selfishly, had not wanted to make himself that type of male in her eyes. So he greeted Kaldon normally, and then turned away when he couldn’t bear to see Feyre smile at him, laugh at something he said, and lean up to kiss him. 

She had used to smile at him like that. 

He supposed he deserved it. Had been given the gift of her love once and had squandered it. And even though a part of him wanted to roar at Kaldon, he knew he didn’t have the right. He had lost that a long time ago. Not just her love, but her friendship. 

He watched from a distance as she grew closer to Kaldon. Further from him. 

He had done a lot of reflection over the last six decades. What had caused that catastrophic mistake that had led him to lose the person he loved most. And not just lose her—but hurt her. 

He couldn’t figure it out, at first. Why had he kissed the girl? Why had he let her kiss him? Why hadn’t he politely excused himself when he knew she was flirting with him? 

He thought it might have been something broken in him. That perhaps he thought he was unworthy, and those feelings of low self esteem had driven him away from Feyre. From the woman he loved most. 

It was something in him. So he worked on himself. Tried to fix it. Tried to become a male he could be proud of, someone worthy of her. And if she never glanced twice at him again, then so be it. That was her choice, and he wouldn’t blame her if she never wanted to see him again. 

But maybe, in another century or two, they could work their way back to friendship. 

They still worked together as High Lord and Lady. Still acted their usual roles at the Court of Nightmares. But his people knew. Knew he and Feyre were not mated anymore, that Feyre had moved on. 

And she had not wanted to be friends. _I will always be your High Lady,_ she had said to him the last time they’d spoken about their relationship. _I will always be the lady of this court, and I will always protect our people. But aside from our political duties...I need time. And distance. Maybe it’s best if we’re not at the same gatherings anymore._

...

At the next war camp meeting, Rhys and Kaldon talked again. Feyre was absent, back in Velaris tending to her own duties. 

Something in Kaldons eyes flickered as he took in Rhys, took in his High Lord. 

“High Lord—“ he began

Rhys waved a hand. “Don’t bother with titles. You’re part of the family now.” He almost choked on the last words. Part of the family—as Feyre’s fiancé. Soon-to-be husband. 

“Rhysand, then,” Kaldon said haltingly. “I know you probably don’t care for me, but I do want to be your friend.”

Oh, perfect. Feyre’s new boyfriend was kind. A good male. Rhys was determined to be the better male, the bigger male. 

So he swallowed his pride, his jealousy, the searing pain in his chest when he saw Feyre with him, and smiled at Kaldon. 

“I’d like that. Perhaps we should all have a dinner together.”

“That sounds great.”


	3. Chapter 3

This dinner would be torture. Slow, unending, painful torture. But he could bear it. For Feyre. Mor was being extra chipper, perhaps to make up for the awkwardness at the table. Cassian, sitting on Rhy’s right, was concerned. Assessing. And Azriel was Azriel. Hiding into his shadows. Amren was not present for this dinner—probably for the best, Rhys wasn’t sure he could handle snarky comments from her right now—away at the Summer court with her lover. 

“So, Kaldon,” Rhys said, fighting to keep a smile on his face. He could do this. He could. “How did you and Feyre meet?”

It seemed like a safe question. 

Kaldon took a sip of wine before answering. “In the Illyrian camps. She’d come to visit for a check-in, and by a twist of fate, the camp lord was unavailable that day, so he sent me instead.” He smiled at Feyre as he finished, and she returned the gesture. Rhys’s heart twisted. 

Feyre was in love with Kaldon. 

He couldn’t see it before, hadn’t been sure of it, but now, sitting here at the table with the two of them and the rest of his inner circle, he could see it. The love in her eyes. Her smile.

He couldn’t breathe. He knew he should say something, knew everyone was waiting for him to respond, but he couldn’t breathe. 

She was in _love._

Forcing a smile on his face, Rhys said at last, “Here’s to the two of you. May you have a long and happy marriage.” Glasses raised and clinked against each other. 

Kaldon smiled, and Rhys didn’t dare look at Feyre’s expression. He wasn’t sure he could handle it, whatever it was. On his right, he could feel Cassian frowning, but he silently willed him not to say anything. 

“More wine, anyone?” Mor asked with a smile. 

...

Sometimes, Rhys could feel her through the bond. When she was experiencing great pleasure or pain, and her shields slipped temporarily. He could feel her. 

A part of him was grateful for it, because it meant that for a moment, he could pretend that nothing had happened between them, and everything was normal and her side of the bond was open again. 

But other times, like when she was in the midst of sex, Rhys wished he couldn’t hear it. Wished he couldn’t feel the echoes of her pleasure, of that males touch all over her, his hands on her body, touching her breasts, sliding fingers into her—

Rhys slammed his mental shields down, but it didn’t make a difference. He could still feel _her_ on the other end of it. A phantom touch against his shields. 

...

The next time Rhys saw Feyre when he went to the estate to find Azriel, he noticed she was avoiding him. More than usual. 

“What’s wrong?”

She blushed deeper. When she faced him at last, he couldn’t read her expression. “Did you—last night— “

Now Rhys was awkward too. He felt guilty—guilty for what? Intruding on what was clearly a private moment? He knew it had been her that had her shields down, not him, but…

“It’s fine,” Rhys said. He didn’t want her to feel embarrassed. 

“No,” she said, staring at him. “It’s not. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He was silent. 

“I just—sometimes, my control slips. I’ll do better, though. I’m sorry,” she said again. 

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I do. If it were you and I had to hear—“ she broke off, shaking her head. “I would go crazy.”

He looked at her again, and the air changed between them. He shut down the hope that flared in his chest. It didn’t mean anything. Her being jealous didn’t mean anything. 

She was staring at him.

“Feyre—“ he started. 

“I have to go,” she said, shaking her head, and she left. 

...

Mor dragged him to Rita’s. He went only after she pestered him endlessly, and though he tried to be happy, for her sake, he found himself brooding in a corner booth for most of the night. 

A girl came up to him and asked him if she could buy him a drink, but he politely declined. 

More females came, some males, and he turned them all down. 

Mor slid into the booth after a while, and gave him a Look. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, before she could say anything. 

She raised her hands in mock defense. “Fine, fine. I didn’t say anything. I’m not feeling it tonight either. Want to go home?”

He knew the offer was for his sake, and more out of pity than anything else, but he didn’t care. 

“Yes. Let’s go.”

...

Feyre was sitting in the courtyard of the estate when Mor came, bearing two cups of hot chocolate in her hands. She offered one to Feyre. 

“Thanks.”

“I was out with Rhys last night.”

Feyre fought not to stiffen at the mention of his name. It had been decades since she’d been together with him, but it didn’t feel that way at all. She could still see his weeping, distraught face as he told her about the truth that broke them up. 

“He hasn’t been with anyone,” Mor continued. “Since you.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons.” Reasons that did not include her. And if they did, it was not her concern. 

“He’s still in love with you, Feyre.”

“He cheated on me. His love means nothing to me.” 

Lie. Rhys was...Rhys. His love would always mean something to her. Even if she resented that fact, resented the part of herself that couldn’t manage to hate him, even though he’d hurt her so much. She wished she could have held onto her anger longer. 

Mor seemed to want to say more, but Feyre gave her a look, and she swallowed her words. 

“I just want you to be happy.”

“I know.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter is probably gonna be the last chapter :)

Feyre was still thinking about the words she’d said to Mor that night. _His love means nothing to me._

It had been a lie. She knew it in the moment, and now, all these hours later, she knew more than ever it was a lie. It was part of the reason she’d distanced herself from him so much. Because she knew—she knew if she allowed herself to grow close to him again, as his friend, she would not be able to resist it. Resist him. He would make her laugh, and every time he looked at her, she would feel that feeling in her chest, and she would give in and open her heart to him again. 

And she was with Kaldon now, who was lovely. He made her laugh, he doted on her day and night, and she knew she felt something for him too. Desire, certainly, but also friendship. And a little of love, too. She could see herself easily building a life with him. 

But despite that, despite everything, she saw another future for herself. And she didn’t want to admit it to herself, but she had seen that future for a long time. It was why she hadn’t rejected the mating bond. Because in her heart of hearts, she could not close the door on Rhys forever. 

Her eyes stinged. 

_He’s still in love with you, Feyre._

She didn’t know if those words were true. Maybe Rhys had moved on, despite what Mor had said. Maybe he truly didn’t feel the same way about her. It had been sixty years. 

But she owed it to herself to be honest. She owed it to herself, and Kaldon, and...Rhys. 

And she knew what she had to do. 

...

This was the first dinner they’d had in a long time with all their friends and family. Just like old times, with the six of them. And just for a little while, it had felt like everything was normal again. 

Rhys had come up to the roof afterwards, and he was looking out across the balcony, at the city beyond them, when he heard the door open, and he recognized the scent immediately. 

His heart stumbled inside his chest. Feyre came up next to him on the balcony, leaned against the rail. 

“I broke up with Kaldon.”

His heart skipped a beat. He turned to face her fully, scanning her face. 

“Why?”

She met his eyes at last. “Because hes not you.”

The entire world skidded to a stop. Impossible, he told himself. Impossible, that she still had feelings for him after sixty years. Sixty years when they’d barely talked beyond their duties together as High Lord and Lady. 

“What do you mean?” he asked stupidly. 

“I mean I never stopped loving you.” She loosed a breath. “I couldn’t. How could anyone stop loving you, Rhys? I just...I needed time alone. I had lost my trust in you, and didn’t see a way out of that hole. I didn’t know how to fix things.”

“What changed?” His voice was hoarse. 

“Me, I guess. I saw you, the way you were, and I fell in love with you again. I told myself it didn’t matter if I loved you if I couldn’t trust you. But...sixty years, and you’ve never taken another lover. Why, Rhys?”

“Why do you think?” he said quietly. 

She nodded. “Maybe we both needed to be apart so that we could find each other at the right time again.” Something sparkled in her eyes. “That is, if you still want me.”

He stopped breathing. Stopped hearing and seeing anything that was not her. “Are you asking me—“

She smiled. “Would you like to go on a date with me, Rhys?”

He swallowed. This was his—their second chance. He would not blunder it again. He would not gamble it, this time. 

“It would be my pleasure.” A tear escaped down his cheek, and she frowned, cupping his face with one hand. 

She leaned in, kissing away the tears, and then kissed him. It was slow, gentle. Just a press of her lips against his. 

He pulled away, breathless.

“Let’s go down,” he said. “Together.”

... 

That night, when they had sex, Rhys worshipped her. Rhys in bed was always insatiable, but that night, he worshipped her with his hands and mouth and later, his body, as if each kiss he pressed to her skin was to make up for lost time. As if he was trying to give her all the pleasure he would have given her over the past six decades in one single night. 

She lost count of how many times she came. All she knew was a blur of pleasure, his body on hers like it was the first and last time they would ever be together. 

He licked and stroked her until she shattered, until she was so lost in pleasure she could only gasp his name, pleading. But he was slow. He took his time, kissing up her body until she was hot with desire, her body a living flame, and just when she thought she would explode from the sheer ecstasy of it, he slid into her, and every movement of his body was like a promise. 

_Never again_

_Never again_

_Never again_

...

He had spent two hours getting ready. Picking out a scent that she would like. Getting her roses. Wearing his finest suit. This was their third date. 

He had taken her to the loveliest restaurant on the Sidra with a beautiful riverfront view. A short walk from their shared estate—the one he had not visited in a long time. Six decades. 

_It’s your house too,_ Feyre had said in those initial days after his—cheating. Even now, the word roiled in him. _We can sell it and divide it._

_It’s more than a house, it’s a home,_ Rhys said. _I don’t want you to sell it. There’s no need. I’ll stay at the townhouse. I bought this house for you. It’s yours._

They had argued for a bit, then she had relented. On the condition that he come visit whenever he wanted to. 

He had, occasionally. To see his brothers or Mor, or Amren. 

But for the most part, he’d stayed away. He’d known Feyre hadn’t wished to see him. 

Now, sitting at the table with her, Rhys smiled. 

They talked about their lives over the past six decades. Rhys had heard bits and pieces from Mor and Cassian and occasionally, Azriel, about her, but Feyre told him everything in great detail. 

At one point, he saw her stiffen. 

“What?” he asked. 

She didn’t answer. She just kept looking behind him, her face stony and cold. Her entire demeanor had shifted. She seemed distant and far away now. 

Rhys turned, and his heart stuttered in his chest at what he saw. _Adelina._ After all these years, after she’d been barred from entry into the city. She’d returned. 

Rhys didn’t stare. He turned back to Feyre, swiftly. He met her eyes. 

This was his test from the universe, he thought numbly. How he handled this would determine a great many things for him and Feyre. 

“I’m sorry you have to see this,” he said carefully. “She shouldn’t be here. I’ll handle it.”

“I’ll come with you,” Feyre said calmly. Too calmly. 

He nodded. “I already called Azriel. He’ll escort her out of the city, and make sure she doesn’t return.”

Feyre’s voice was cold. “That was what he promised last time.”

Rhys opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. 

“I want her out of the Night Court, this time. Forever.”

He couldn’t afford to deny her this. And frankly, he didn’t care about this girl. Adelina. The name still haunted him in his nightmares. The greatest mistake of his life. The one he was still repenting for, and would never forgive himself for. Even if Feyre eventually found it in her heart to forgive him. 

“Of course.”

Feyre stalked up to the girl, and he followed at her side. 

“You’re not allowed into the city,” Rhys said by way of greeting to her. 

Adelina, sitting alone at her table, looked up at him. 

“Hello to you, too, High Lord.” She took in Feyre. Inclined her head. “High Lady.”

“Adelina,” Feyre purred, and Rhys fought not to stiffen at the promise of violence in that single word. “What are you doing here, may I ask?”

Adelina sighed. “It’s been sixty years. It was one kiss. Get over it.”

Azriel appeared at his side, barely more than a whisper of shadow. 

Feyre ignored Adelinas comment, and said instead, “You are banished from the Night Court. If you ever set foot in this territory again, your life will be forfeit.”

Rhys slid a hand over Feyre’s back, and said to Adelina. “You would be wise to listen to my mate, and leave with my shadowsinger without struggle. I don’t want to make a scene.”

Indeed, people were already staring. The High Lord, the High Lady, and their shadowsinger having an altercation in a restaurant in broad daylight. Rumors would spread. 

Adelina only leaned back in her chair and smirked. “What’s the problem? Seems like you two made up.” 

Feyre let out a vicious snarl. “How _dare_ you pursue a mated male—your _High Lord_ —and come back to this city? You’re lucky I haven’t flayed the skin from your bones.”

“Maybe you should blame your husband first,” Adelina purred, and Rhys hated her. He hated everything about her. His blood roared in his ears, and he could feel his magic rallying inside him. 

“Did he tell you he kissed _me?_ ” Adelina continued. “An affair takes two.” 

Rhys answered so Feyre wouldn’t have to. “You are considerably less charming now that I’m sober,” he drawled, willing the rage inside him to cool. “As my mate has said, you should thank her for being gracious enough to only exile you. I suggest you leave before she changes her mind.”

“And stay out of _my home,_ ” Feyre hissed. 

She rolled her eyes, but made to leave. Azriel’s face was cold and brutal. Rhys almost felt bad for her. Almost. 

“Wait,” he said. 

Adelina stopped. 

“Apologize,” he said. His voice was cold. Unyielding. 

There was a pause. Even Feyre turned to look at him. But Rhys didn’t move his gaze from Adelina’s. 

“I have apologized to my mate,” he said softly. There was just a hint of danger in his tone. A promise of violence. “Now you will do the same.”

Reluctantly, she dragged her gaze to Feyre. Bowed her head, and mumbled, “I’m sorry.” 

Feyre’s face remained unchanged. Unfazed. She didn’t deign to acknowledge her. 

“For what?” Rhys purred.

Adelina grit her teeth. “For pursuing your mate. For flirting with him even when I knew he was unavailable.” 

“Wasn’t that easy?” Rhys didn’t know why he was baiting her. Everything about this female put him on edge. He was on dangerous territory. 

Tentatively, he looked at Feyre to gauge her reaction, but he couldn’t read her face. 

“You are free to leave,” he said graciously. 

Adelina huffed a breath, but took Azriel’s offered hand and the two of them vanished without second thought. 

“I’m sorry,” Rhys breathed. Their night was ruined. Her presence had been a damper. 

Feyre shook her head. “It’s not your fault. Don’t apologize.”

She leaned forward and kissed him, halting his very heart, and as if she had not just upturned his entire world with that soft, gentle kiss, she grinned at him. 

His heart stopped at that smile. He would go to war for that smile, to earn it, to be worthy of it. 

“Come on,” she urged. “I’m not going to let her ruin our night.”

They stayed up all night, talking and laughing, and when they finally collapsed next to each other in the bed in their old bedroom, Feyre’s head nestled on his chest, her arms around him, Rhys thought that he could finally breathe again after a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, she told him to move his things in. 

“It’s just easier this way. It’s inconvenient for you to have to move back and forth all the time. And besides, everyones always here anyway.”

He nodded, unable to believe this was happening, that she was letting him back in her life, _trusting_ him again. He wouldn’t blow it. 

Every day, he brought her a present. Some days, it was flowers from Elain’s garden. Other days, it was her favorite pastries from a shop on the Sidra. It was always something small, but meaningful, and it showed her that he was thinking of her. 

He would make a point to bring her presents on days when they fought. He didn’t want her thinking that any fight between them would lead him to another. He knew he had given her cause to doubt him, to build this fear in her mind. 

So whenever they fought, and she kicked him out, he would sleep outside her door. To let her know he wasn’t going anywhere, ever again. It comforted him, too. Reminded him that he’d changed, and was no longer the male that was so weak and broken, he’d betrayed his mates confidence. Her trust. 

He had new nightmares. Of him losing Feyre again. Of Feyre catching him caught up with Adelina. Sometimes it was with a faceless girl. Each time, the horror and devastation on Feyre’s face cleaved his chest in two and chased him from his sleep. 

He didn’t know if Feyre knew what his nightmares were about. He never told her, because he didn’t want to remind her of his greatest mistake. The darkest time in their relationship. He didn’t want to remind her of the pain he’d caused her. So he never told her, and sometimes he lied, and told her he had dreamt of Amarantha, of Under the Mountain. 

But Feyre would hold his hair back, stroking his back gently as he emptied his stomach, sick and disgusted with himself at the betrayal he had committed. The ugly, selfish truth of his sin. 

Afterwards, Feyre would hold him, and he would breathe in the scent of her, feel her arms around him, and sleep would find him at last. 

One day, Feyre asked him. “What are your nightmares about?”

“Under the Mountain,” he lied. “The usual.”

“Rhys.”

“What?”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He faced her, ashamed all of a sudden. “I don’t want to tell you something you don’t want to hear. I don’t want to remind you of your pain.”

“Your pain is my pain,” she said. “And nothing you say could push me away. I’m here to stay, Rhys.”

He didn’t meet her eyes as he said, “I dream of betraying you again. I see your face, distraught and devastated, and I know that I’ve caused it. I see us falling further apart.”

“Rhys,” Feyre says, sitting on his lap and taking his face in her hands. “They’re just dreams. I love you. I trust you.”

It’s the last three words that make his throat burn. Trust. It had taken him so long to rebuild that. He still wasn’t sure how solid that trust was. 

“Thank you,” he rasped. 

Feyre hugged him, and he scented the salt of her tears. He stiffened, about to pull away to read her face, but she buried her face in his neck. 

“I forgive you, Rhys. I know I’ve never told you that. I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure I had. I held onto my resentment and anger for a long time, even after...even after we grew close again. But I mean it. I forgive you. I understand why you did it, and why you won’t do it again, and I trust you.”

This time, she pulled back to see him crying. “Thank you,” he said. “I swear on my life, I won’t disappoint you again.”

“I know,” she said. “I know.”

...

Slowly, they found their way back to where they were before, and that raw, festering wound between them healed. They lived thousands of years together, and some days Rhys thought that maybe their relationship was stronger now because of it—because of what they’d endured, and how they’d found their way back to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter! thank you all for reading :)


End file.
